Chris Mooney - World Without End

"You ready?" Booker asked.

"Yeah." Conway's voice was dry and tight.

"Exit by the back door like we talked about. See you in ten," Booker said, sticking to the script. A click and he was gone.

Conway placed the phone on the desk. On the screen Bouchard explained how they would use Jonathan Cole to get Renee Kauf-mann.

Lies. All of it lies.

Bouchard calmly walked out of the condo, back out into the clean air back out into his life.

You lying son of a bitch.

If Conway brought this evidence to the CIA, they would try to sweep it under the rug, keep it nice and quiet. Had to protect the Agency.

Conway wanted Raymond Bouchard to go down in flames in front of the world. He wasn't about to give him an opportunity to hide.

You're right, of course. But you know being right and having the truth on your side doesn't change political agendas. You carry out your plan, your CIA career will be over.

On screen Conway saw Owen Lee and a short, dark man Lee called the Elf plant the drugs around Riley's apartment and talk about where to place the surveillance gear. He slammed the laptop shut, ripped off his earphones, and shoved it inside the briefcase. He had to leave his watch on. He wanted Cole and his men to be able to track him.

Inside the briefcase was a rubber Halloween mask. Conway removed it and looked at the stark white face and red hair the mask of serial killer Michael Myers from the Halloween horror movies. Conway fitted the mask over his head and then put on his black leather gloves to hide the skin color of his hands. He knew Cole had men waiting outside, maybe even inside the bank, ready to pick him up. Hopefully, the mask and the elaborate setup to follow would confuse Cole just enough to allow Conway to pass off the briefcase with the evidence.

Conway's phone rang again. He hit the button and pressed the phone against his rubber ear.

"Don't be afraid, Stephen," Angel Eyes said.

"I'll protect you. I give you my word. We'll travel this road together."

Conway hung up and shoved the phone inside his pocket. Then he locked the briefcase and moved behind the door, his hand on the doorknob, ready. His equilibrium seemed off. He felt like a man who had staggered away from a terrible accident. He sucked in air. He could smell his stale, sour breath along with the rubbery stench of the mask.

The fire alarm sounded. Conway opened the door and ran, navigating his way through the short maze, and then headed into the lobby. Four of Booker's men were dressed identically, all of them wearing the same masks and holding the same briefcases, people already on the floor, cowering, thinking it was a robbery. Booker's men fell into line with Conway. He exchanged briefcases with one of them and then they all raced for the front door.

Owen Lee couldn't believe his fucking luck. Man. He expected to hear the CD play over the speakers inside the van Cole had leaned forward in his chair, waiting, and Lee's hand gripped the revolver inside his jacket.

But no sound ever came. Conway must have plugged headphones into the laptop. They could hear the dude breathing heavy, then heard the phone ring twice and listened as he talked to Booker and then to that spooky motherfucker Angel Eyes.

Cole was only a couple of feet away. Lee thought, Kill him now.

And he would have if it weren't for the fire alarm. He could hear the goddamn drilling sound here in the van, a block away.

Cole, calm and in control cocky was what it was on the headset to the men: "Stephen's going to exit the back. Be ready."

Lee's attention shifted to the monitor showing the back door wait, what the fuck was this: on monitor four, here came Conway bursting through the front entrance, the area lit up by the bank's outside door lights.

The glass door burst wide open and oh shit, here came four no five, guys, all of them running. They were all dressed in long black jackets and held briefcases and what the fuck, all of their faces were covered by masks with creepy orange hair that stuck straight up.

"What the hell is this shit?" Owen said.

"He's trying to confuse us. Lock onto his transmitters."

Lee worked the console, his heart beating against his ribs. It didn't feel right. And why was he sweating so much? He had done this shit hundreds of times and never had he sweated like this.

Cole had moved directly behind him. Shoot him now. No. Got to deal with Conway first.

New action on monitor two, a live shot from the van across the street: five black Lincoln Navigators had pulled up against the curb. The people about to enter the bank had thrown themselves against the snow-covered ground and lawn, their shaking hands covering their heads.

Conway and his boys were at the SUVs.

"I've got all of Conway's transmitters locked: He's the middle guy, right here," Lee said and tapped a finger against at the screen.

"What do you want to do?"

Cole spoke into the headset to the sniper: "Take them down."

Conway was inside. The SUV, its engine throbbing beneath him, hadn't moved away yet. The first vehicle pulled away. Through the eye slits in the mask Conway saw Booker, his face calm as he gripped the steering wheel, ready to move.

Something slammed into the back window. A spider web of cracks bled off from the center hole, the round deflected by the SUVs bulletproof glass. More rounds deflected off the glass of the surrounding SUVs.

The Navigator peeled away from the curb in a screech of rubber. Another shot hit Booker's window, right where his head was. Book ignored it; he was locked in some other place, concentrating, the same look Pasha had that night in Colorado when a sniper hit the van window, her expression never breaking once as the van fishtailed over a snow-whipped street glowing under a blanket of silver moonlight that rained bullets.

"The Navigators are bulletproof," Owen Lee said. Steve, you clever motherfucker.

On the color screen, Owen watched as the pack of SUVs pulled away from the curb.

"I still got Conway's vehicle locked," Lee said. He looked up through the van's front window and saw the SUVs race past them. In fact, everything was racing. His heart, his vision man, he was soaring. It was like that time down in Tijuana when he was banging this seventeen-year-old whore, snorting coke off of her back, higher than a kite, sweeeet Jesus, and just as he was about to come he thought he was going to black out. But this… he felt like he was swimming away. It didn't feel right.

"Guys are calling in," Lee said. Now he felt short of breath.

"How… how you want to play it?"

Cole spoke his orders into the headset. Each unit was to break off and follow one of the Lincoln Navigators. While he spoke, Lee made a clumsy attempt to grab the gun. Cole grabbed him by the throat, pushed him back out of his chair, and pinned Lee against the floor. Cole's free hand pried the.38. away from the jacket.

"You were going to use this?" Cole said.

"This wouldn't have even put a dent in me."

Owen Lee tried to move and couldn't. His eyes were open; he could see but he couldn't blink. Cole moved in closer.

"You're going to be paralyzed for several hours," Cole said.

"Your friend the Elf drugged your food and coffee. For me."

What's the first rule in this business, Owen? Trust no one.

Lee wanted to talk, to try to barter for his life with the information he had on Bouchard, but his mouth wouldn't work. Nothing was working, but he could feel everything: the grip around his throat and the weight of Cole's body. And to top it off, it was becoming a struggle to breathe. Like he only had half of one lung working. But his mind was fine, nothing hazy there, and the voices screaming inside his head were clear and so loud.

Cole turned Lee onto his side. Out the front window the black sky was peppered with bright stars. It reminded Lee of a time long ago when he was a kid. Cole used flex-cuffs and bound Lee's hands and feet, and then moved his mouth closer to Lee's ear.